


long way from home

by sannlykke



Series: SASO 2017 [11]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: and if you were an unreachable star, I would be the eyesight gazing afar.on holding on, letting go, and where they each belong.





	1. departure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgrey_milktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/gifts).



> title taken from hebe tien's ["soulmates"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oKIBJJW8neU)
> 
> this is a combination of two saso fills ([1](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12731461#cmt12731461)) and ([2](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12890181#cmt12890181))
> 
> this fill (especially the second chapter) touches on the knb x nba collab and also contains some spoilers for last game, kinda?

Shintarou stops at the same corner supermarket he always does, even after it had all happened, because he doesn’t know where else to go.  
  
He gets his daily newspaper there (most of the time; he likes the feel of the paper rustling against his fingers, but sometimes he is simply too busy for that), maybe some groceries (if he feels like it, or if his mother had asked him to stop by for something), and shiruko (a constant). Sometimes he would hover over the hot meals, pausing in front the side dishes before remembering he is alone.  
  
The chilly winter air stings his face even as he pulls his scarf over his nose and walks towards his apartment, spare and empty with too much of him still unable to leave.  
  
Shintarou checks his messages to look for the link to his ticket again, for his flight to Boston in two days. If he scrolls down enough, he will find other messages, strewn across time, but he does not make to look at those, or delete them.  
  
When he arrives home he sets down the bags, waters his plants, and takes out the curry rice and side of kimchi to eat.  
  
-  
  
Today’s Oha Asa prediction for Cancer is disheartening. Rank eleven, with the lucky item of a pack of tissues. Shintarou already carries one around (one never knows when an accident would happen), but today he packs two just in case. The apartment is leased for another year—he would sublease it, to offset the cost of a Tokyo residence, but for now that is out of the question.  
  
Shintarou drops off his sister’s jacket (she’d left it by accident the last time she’d visited, not all that long ago) quietly, before she returns home. His parents are away, and he had already said goodbye to them anyhow—he would see his family again in the winter, for Christmas.  
  
He would see others: his friends, schoolmates, acquaintances perhaps.  
  
The trees have long shed their foliage for the season, framing the park down the street like bare skeletons. Shintarou quickens his footsteps as he walks past the entrance, the coffee in his hands threatening to spill.   
  
It’s silly being so hung up on something out of his control, after he had tried—God, had he tried.  
  
(Had he not been enough? Or had it been something else?)  
  
Shintarou almost trips on a root growing out of the side of the wall, and spills some of the coffee onto the ground, staining the grey concrete in dark splotches. He wrinkles his nose and makes a mental note to file a report to the city. When he reaches into his pocket for his tissues—Oha-Asa has never been wrong about this—he feels his phone vibrate, the music start, slow and steady.  
  
He hasn’t heard this ringtone in what seems like a long two weeks. Shintarou stands, stark still in the middle of the sidewalk, lukewarm coffee seeping into his gloves as the song plays again and again, from beginning till end, the lyrics still echoing in his ears long after it had ceased.  
  
-  
  
Oha Asa had never been wrong before, but it is unusual for it to repeat a lucky item so soon.  
  
Shintarou sits in the waiting area at his gate in Haneda Airport, scanning the screen for delays. In the airport time slows to a crawl, full of rowdy children and old men dozing on the benches, luggage piled up so high he cannot tell one from another.   
  
An announcement comes on; they are to board starting now.  
  
His phone buzzes with a new message as he stands up, shouldering his single carry-on bag. There will be new lucky items to buy in America, new things to see, as much as he prefers everything to stay growing at a constant pace, at home. But that is something for the future.   
  
Shintarou takes out his phone, expecting to see a short message from his sister.  
  
 _Take care, Shin-chan._  
  
-  
  
The flight attendant smiles but doesn’t ask when he points to the number on his ticket. Shintarou follows the directions to the left aisle in the flow of boarding passengers, his grip tight, the nylon straps digging into his skin.  
  
When he sits down, he is relieved to find his seatmate already preparing to doze off. Shintarou looks out his window—at the asphalt down below, the unremarkable concrete buildings, the single large wing of the aircraft. The early morning sky, overcast and grey, threatening, looms over them.  
  
The plane is held back for a little while before he hears the intercom start up again.  
  
Shintarou shuts off his internet connection, stows his phone away, and stares at the screen where the flight attendant is demonstrating how to use the emergency exits. Halfway through takeoff, while the rest of the plane is holding to their seats, exuberant or despairing, he reaches for his lucky item of the day just as the rain starts to fall.


	2. arrival

Once upon a time, Takao Kazunari had not believed in fate.  
  
It’s silly to believe that everything has a set course from which nothing could deviate, he thinks. Sometimes there are exceptions to a routine, and he’s never thought himself infallible enough that he’d need any rituals to keep that going day after day. What’s the fun in living when you’re stuck to what other people dictate of you?  
  
That hadn’t changed after knowing Midorima Shintarou. It hadn’t changed after Midorima and him no longer had much to do with each other, either.  
  
Watching him painstakingly follow Oha Asa to a T had been amusing, sometimes exciting (and tiring) when Takao had been the one to cart him around looking for the item of the day. Sometimes it had been aggravating, when Midorima refused to leave his house on a particularly bad day, no matter how much of a front Takao put up for him with. It would be silly to say this was why things had happened the way they did, but some part of Takao still wonders if perhaps they had been a little too hard on each other in the end.  
  
Even so, nothing is going to go back to the way things were.  
  
-  
  
December comes a few months later, cold and swirling with snow unlike last year, which had been a dry winter. Neither the wind nor chill would not stop Takao from boarding his flight, though.  
  
 _From: Miyaji  
To: Takao  
  
Oi, you better bring omiyage for your senpai_  
  
-  
  
 _From: Takao  
To: Miyaji-senpai  
  
d(-_^) Sure will!!_  
  
-   
  
 _From: Otsubo  
To: Takao  
  
Miyaji meant to say he hopes you have a safe flight as well. Don’t catch a cold!_  
  
-  
  
 _From: Takao  
To: Otsubo-senpai  
  
Ah~thank you! I won’t with your scarf, I’m sure!_  
  
  
He would be visiting the headquarters of the international publishing house, where he’s set to begin work in the Tokyo branch in spring. He’d never meant to go into translation—it’s too boring, too dry, but his quick wit had worked in his favor during the interview, and well.  
  
He grips his ticket tightly.  
  
He’s going to Boston.  
  
Outside, as the plane takes off, Takao watches the snow pile higher and higher, flurries of snowflakes enlarging as they pass his window, and even the roughness of the ride does not compare with the turns and leaps inside his heart at the moment.  
  
-  
  
When Takao exits the flight, the first thing he sees on the televisions in the waiting area is a basketball game.  
  
Someone cheers, another person groans. He sees green uniforms on the screen, and then, not waiting to see the score nor who they are playing against, turns away and walks towards the baggage claim.  
  
  
Takao has never thought himself a coward, someone who would escape rather than taking things head on. There’s no pleasure in defeating something physically if you let it mentally defeat you first. But when he walks out of Harvard Yard, heading straight for the T after escaping a seemingly never-ending tour with an overbearing manager, who does he run into but Midorima Shintarou walking straight out of the exit.  
  
Midorima freezes in his tracks.  
  
Takao drops his books.  
  
“Oh,” Takao says, after a lengthy silence in which impatient pedestrians simply brushed past them while muttering something about stupid tourists. He bends down, scrambling to get everything before they were completely buried by the snow. “Oh. Hi. Um.”  
  
It’s too cold to stand out here and stare at each other—Midorima might be used to this by now, maybe, but even the sort of snow back in Tokyo had had Takao holed up inside all day. Midorima says nothing as he watches Takao gather up his things, but the twitch of his fingers towards him is not something Takao’s gaze misses.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” he says, wrapping his scarf tighter around his face as he regains feeling in his legs again. “I better get going, you know, you must be busy and—“  
  
“Takao,” Midorima says, from behind him. It’s only instinct that freezes Takao to the spot, or so he wants to say. “What. What are you doing here?”  
  
Someone’s recognized Midorima now, surely, because Takao can suddenly feel eyes looking their way, students crossing the road pointing and whispering.  
  
“I’m on a business trip.”  
  
“How did you know I was here?”  
  
Takao turns around. “I didn’t, Sh—Midorima. I work in a publishing house now. You don’t go to school here, do you, now that you’re playing?”  
  
(Try as he might, he can’t un-see Midorima flinching at that.)  
  
“No,” Midorima says quietly, after a moment, after there are people coming towards him now, undeterred by his ridiculous, familiar disguise of sunglasses. “I don’t.”  
  
-  
  
“Don’t you want to come home?” his sister asks over Skype, a little petulantly, as if she’s missing out on some grand vacation her older brother is taking. Takao smiles despite himself, making a vague noise of agreement. “You should bring me something, Kazu-nii.”  
  
“You already sent me a very long list of makeup and snacks, Keiko.”  
  
Keiko sighs and makes a face at him, and he laughs.  
  
Of course he wants to go home. It’s nice being here—not so nice out there braving the elements and trying not to die of exposure, but Boston’s a likable enough city. The trains are a far cry from what he’s used to back in Tokyo, and sometimes he gets lost trying to find the restaurants and office buildings for his appointments, and well—  
  
When he turns on the television he thinks,  _it’s still not fate, but maybe it’s something else._  
  
The Celtics win their game that night 93-71, and Takao goes to sleep early for once.  
  
-  
  
 _From: Unknown Number  
To: Takao  
  
Hello Takao-kun, it’s nice to know you’re in America. Midorima-kun’s number is OOO-OOO-OOOO, for your reference. He won’t say anything to me, but I think you should give him a call_  
  
-  
  
 _From: Takao  
To: Kuroko?  
  
…Is that you? I looked it up, this is a Texas number._  
  
-  
  
 _From: Kuroko?  
To: Takao  
  
I will neither confirm nor deny that._  
  
-  
  
There’s something to be said about the weird Teikou telepathy game they have going on, and Takao will say that perhaps even in all these years of him knowing Midorima there are some things he still cannot figure out and need a third-party to mitigate. Not an intervention, perhaps—he sighs, a little resignedly as he puts on his jacket. It feels a little like losing again to have it turn out this way.  
  
But he also knows sometimes all Midorima needs is a push.  
  
-  
  
He chooses a cafe near a residential area he’d looked up on TripAdvisor; maybe Midorima would know a better place, but he isn’t about to push his luck now. Takao isn’t even sure Midorima had read his message, and the unfamiliar nervousness that’s been creeping up him all day has finally blossomed into a full-blown panic as he walks into the glass doors and finds nobody there yet.  
  
At least Takao knows how to keep his composure. He takes a seat by the window, looking out at the students walking to and fro, at the weather that’s finally let up a little for a day. The sidewalks are shoveled clean, and he watches with amusement at two kids trying and failing to make a snow monster. They give up, and one starts pelting snowballs at the other.  
  
Takao’s in the middle of cheering the other kid on when he hears a polite cough next to him.  
  
“Takao,” Midorima says, his voice as stiff as it had been when they’d first been introduced to each other all those years ago. Takao could barely see his eyes; he’s looking down at the table even as he maneuvers awkwardly into the seat. He takes a deep breath. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Takao replies almost blithely as he slides a menu over to him. Maybe he could do this after all. “So. Talk.”  
  
Midorima stares at the menu as if it’s poison, and then gingerly puts a hand on the plastic. “When are you leaving?”  
  
“Is that what you want me to—“  
  
“No!” Midorima says quickly, reddening. “I didn’t mean—I meant, your flight, because I—“  
  
“Don’t you have a season to finish?” Takao asks, and then, realizing what Midorima means when he looks away and mutters something about sitting out, finds himself unable to stop smiling. “Ah. Selfish requests.”  
  
“Don’t say it like that.”  
  
“Well, it happens, I guess,” Takao replies lightly, leaning back. Neither he nor Midorima have touched their drinks yet, and he could see the steam dissipating with each passing minute. “I won’t ask you to do anything for me, Shin-chan. What’s done is done. It’s just—we’re here, in the same city somehow, at the same time, so…”  
  
Midorima looks at him, a little miffed, a little vulnerable. “Fate works in strange ways, yes. I thought…perhaps you didn’t want to see me again.”  
  
 _It’s not fate,_  Takao wants to say, but he watches with interest as Midorima’s hand suddenly shoots to his neck, then to his sides, then he turns around and looks the most distressed Takao’s ever seen him other than that one time in school. He waits, blinking.  
  
It could only mean one thing.  
  
“My scarf…” Midorima begins, eyebrows knotting as he halfheartedly looks under the table. “I must’ve left it in the office.”  
  
“A cruel strike fate has dealt you,” Takao says, amused. Midorima gives him the best rendition of his death glare he could muster, but without the power of his lucky item it just doesn’t seem to hold any weight. “Maybe you need to get a new one.”  
  
Midorima shakes his head in despair. It’s just like school again, Takao realizes, a little painfully, but then he hears Midorima continue. “It has to be hand-knit by someone I know…that was my  _sister’s,_  Takao. I cannot simply ask someone to knit one for me right here and now.”  
  
“Calm down, Shin-chan,” Takao says gently, reaching out to grasp his bandaged hand. Midorima does not flinch this time, merely looks up at him in confusion. He smiles, pulling out Otsubo’s handiwork from his bag. “I can fix that.”  
  
-  
  
Once upon a time, Takao Kazunari had not believed in fate. But now, perhaps, there’s something more to it than daily horoscopes and lucky items.  
  
It’s silly to believe that everything will turn out alright in the end; fairytales are fairytales, after all. All one can do is simply push along with the most one can do.  
  
When he boards the plane a few days later, overweight luggage and all, Takao spots a familiar figure, tall with ridiculous sunglasses, escaping from the ring-lights of the paparazzi as he power-walks into the gate for the JAL flight back to Tokyo.  
  
Some things stay the same.  
  
-  
  
(Miyaji would yell at him for bringing a cold back instead of limited-edition overseas idol merchandise, but well, what’s Takao going to do?  
  
He’s finally home, and that’s all that matters.)


End file.
